New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘I’m waiting,’ he jokes, nudging me. ‘I wanted you to join me.’

  He’s staring intently, his gaze direct and piercing. He sounds genuinely miffed that I stayed on the shale. No, that can’t be the case. Surely he’s joking; he can’t possibly mean that he wouldn’t have minded me undressing and joining him in the water.

  I blush.

  His eyes haven’t left my face for this entire thought.

  How stupid am I? If I wait a few seconds longer, he’s bound to start laughing, he’ll say the trick is on me, roll around in fits of belly laughter at the very thought of me swallowing every cheesy line.

  And yet he remains silent and solemn, staring intently into my eyes as if he means every word.

  Yeah, right, who does he think he’s kidding?

  Ruth

  I empty the contents of the box on to the bathroom floor. The various bottles and plastic gloves fill me with dread; ridiculous as it seems, I’m nervous. This is entirely out of my comfort zone.

  I sit on the closed lid of the toilet and slowly read the accompanying instruction leaflet. The diagrams make it look so simple, but a number of ‘what ifs’ deter me from dividing my hair into three large sections. Surely if fourteen-year-old schoolgirls can manage this, so can I.

  I stand, collect the plastic bottles from the floor and arrange them along the sink unit. I pull on the foul-smelling rubber gloves finger by finger, then stare at my reflection. My ­mother’s face from two decades ago gazes back. The same mass of grey-brown hair, unkempt eyebrows, deep ridges around the mouth and a dull finish to once rosy cheeks. I recognise my own eyes, but the once twinkling glimmer seems to have faded too. When and how did that happen?

  ‘Stop kidding yourself, Ruth,’ I whisper to the woman in the mirror. ‘It’s been years since you took an interest in your appearance. Why start now?’ She fails to answer me; in fact she refuses to meet my gaze, as though she can’t bear to acknowledge my existence. ‘Boy, I can’t look myself in the eye let alone others.’

  My hands act before my brain triggers the idea. I sweep up the collection of plastic bottles lined up like soldiers and drop them in the bin, then wrench the rubber gloves from my hands, tearing one in the process, and stuff them in on top.

  What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell am I trying to kid?

  Chapter Ten

  Monday 27 August

  Benjamina

  ‘Benni, what’re your plans for today?’ calls Emma, rapping sharply on my bedroom door.

  I pull the duvet over my head and inhale deeply. Today the world and his wife are on holiday; somehow this fact negates my own fortnight away. If the entire country is on holiday, I can’t possibly be. I envisage the bottling machinery of the vinegar factory standing still and silent. On rare occasions I’ve seen the production line pause – on Armistice Day, for example, when we honour the fallen soldiers – but never for the entire day.

  ‘Come on,’ Emma says. ‘The sun is shining, and judging by the amount of traffic snaking past the lounge window the harbour will already be busy.’

  ‘So I’ll spend the day at the cottage, avoiding the crowds,’ I reply, hearing my own grumpiness.

  I hear the bedroom door open, and Emma’s voice gets louder.

  ‘Don’t be narky. They’re only enjoying what we’ve been doing for days.’ She tugs at the bedclothes, but I hold tight, aware of the awful sight of my pyjama-clad body lying beneath.

  ‘Benni, come on . . . let’s go and do the tourist thing amongst the tourists.’

  ‘We are tourists!’

  ‘Nah, not really. We’ve established our own little home in a matter of days. Let’s go and be true tourists for the day!’

  I pull back the duvet and peer into her eager face.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, come on . . . I’ll go and wake Ruth.’ She dashes from the room and I hear her running down the stairs. But when she bangs on Ruth’s door, there’s no reply.

  Ruth

  As I watch the families streaming along the concrete walkway towards the lighthouse, I feel awful, selfish, even as I instantly will them to go away and leave me alone. Can’t they see I’m painting? I need peace and quiet, not a crowd of critics standing behind me commenting on my composition and colour palette, as if I’m a contestant on a landscape painting programme and they are the experts: ‘Mmm, the foreground’s not quite detailed enough for my liking’; ‘She hasn’t captured those clouds quite right’; and even ‘A lighthouse – hardly original, is it?’

  If only they knew that it’s taking every ounce of courage I have to sit here painting in public while they mill round me critiquing my work. I bit my tongue when an elderly lady said she’d seen better on the wall of a primary school.

  I take a break and watch as two young boys tussle and play while their parents walk behind them hand in hand. They look happy with their lot. Content with their world of crabbing buckets and rucksacks.

  My Jack would have loved a brother. Younger, obviously.

  I’m drawn to their relaxed manner, their togetherness, their happiness as a unit. No shouting, no arguing; just a healthy family unit.

  Could I ever have had that? Me and a husband, with Jack and perhaps one other child? That togetherness strolling along a pathway in the sunshine?

  I swallow and look away.

  I was so naïve, even at twenty-seven. Mum knew that, of course, and took full advantage of it. I’d disappointed her, so she took charge of the situation and told me exactly how it would be. I’d return to work, she’d look after my baby and we’d simply make the best of it. It was a different era – society had moved on – but she thought people would still talk and pass comment like they had in the sixties. Mum knew best. We were to remain respectable and maintain our reputation as a family of three. We’d focus on us and remain just us. There was no place for others, gossips or otherwise. Mum, me and Jack. That’s all I ever knew. And yet somewhere along the line there must have been others who were interested in knowing us, in sharing our lives. A stranger, perhaps, whose gaze lingered a fraction too long; a warm smile as I entered a room. How different life would be now if I had noticed, smiled back, welcomed someone else into my world.

  My innards feel like lead, and I sigh, exhaling deep regret.

  It does no good to ponder on what might have been. I did as I was told. I provided for our family thanks to my full-time job at the bank, and Mum stayed at home and cared for Jack. My son, who I shared with my mother. And, in a strange kind of way, who almost became her son.

  ‘There you are! We’ve been looking for you all over!’ cries Emma, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘I’ve been here all morning; I wasn’t lost,’ I retort, fiddling with a brush.

  ‘We’re having a tourist day; are you coming or staying here?’ asks Benni, sidling up behind Emma and peering at my watercolour. ‘This is very good, Ruth – you’ve captured that bit perfectly.’

  I nod, staring as she points to a part of the painting criticised earlier by a passing expert.

  ‘I suppose I’ve done two and a bit hours. I could call it a day,’ I add, worried that my nosedive towards the past will linger if I remain on my own.

  ‘We’ll help you pack up. We can stash your equipment at the ice cream parlour – Martin won’t mind – and then head out along the front: fish and chips, candyfloss . . . we could even visit the Golden Hind and see what it’s like inside,’ says Emma, her expression brightening with each suggestion.

  Emma

  We walk the length of the harbour defence and deliver Ruth’s belongings to the storeroom at the ice cream parlour.

  I feel cheeky asking, but needs must.

  ‘It would take thirty minutes or more to walk to the cottage just to return her equipment,’ I explain to Luca, who nods understandingly as we quickly retreat towards the parlour’s e
xit.

  ‘You can’t afford to waste precious time, not on a bank holi­day,’ he says, as he fills a waffle cone for a child at the counter.

  ‘Too true. Catch you later,’ shouts Benni as we step outside.

  ‘So, what’s it to be?’ I ask, surprised that we’ve convinced Ruth to join us.

  ‘The Golden Hind,’ suggests Benni, staring across to the ship moored a short distance away.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say, adding, ‘I didn’t have you down as a pirate kind of gal!’ I’m not sure I want a guided tour of a replica ship.

  ‘We’re tourists! It’s got to be done!’ says Benni, leading the way without waiting for an alternative suggestion.

  ‘Can I choose the next activity then?’ asks Ruth, trotting to keep up with Benni.

  ‘Sure, as long as it involves food,’ I agree, following them.

  I tag along, never quite catching them up as they reach the harbour ticket office, and I join Ruth waiting at the side while Benni queues, unsure how she is working the transaction. Individual tickets, or one person pays for all three? I do the obligatory grabbing of my purse to show willing, when she returns, as does Ruth. I don’t know what there is to see inside, but if the other two truly want to do the tour, I’ll tag along without complaining.

  ‘Put your cash away – I’ve paid for three. Here,’ says Benni, pushing one ticket into Ruth’s palm and another into mine.

  Ruth stares at the ticket with a puzzled expression. I’m not sure she’s used to such generosity.

  She’s truly flummoxed by Benni’s action. Bless her. Obviously her responsibilities mean she doesn’t get out much.

  She opens her purse and offers Benni the money.

  ‘No thanks, Ruth – it’ll be your shout later. It’ll work out fairly by the end of the day, trust me.’

  The penny drops. Finally, Ruth puts her purse away and accepts Benni’s kindness.

  Benni takes the lead, striding along the ship’s gangplank towards a pirate dressed in frills and a tricorn and waving a large cutlass beneath a spider’s web of rigging and crow’s nests.

  The plank decking is sturdy and new-looking, but the flimsy side barriers made of knotted rope make me feel slightly queasy. I glance dubiously at the rippling water below and am grateful that the ship is securely moored and sailing nowhere soon.

  Benjamina

  ‘Ruth, I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t realise how nasty seasickness could be,’ says Emma, rubbing Ruth’s back while she vomits over the side of the ferry from Torquay.

  I stand the other side of the pair, clutching the rail, trying to avoid the spray from Ruth’s noisy retching. I’m grateful that the railing is a solid barrier and not slatted, otherwise everyone could witness what she had for breakfast.

  I stare around the other passengers, who sit in neat rows attempting to ignore Ruth’s plight. Each time she retches, numerous people lift tissues to their mouths as if in sympathy.

  ‘Emma, here . . .’ I pass her a packet of tissues gratefully received from a woman with a baby a few seconds ago. Emma takes the offering and quickly opens the cellophane, passing Ruth a fresh tissue to wipe her mouth.

  I’m glad this ferry trip wasn’t my suggestion. I can see from Emma’s concerned expression that she wishes she’d kept her mouth shut. We could easily have nipped to the nearest pub for scampi in a basket; instead, Ruth was sick as soon as we sailed. And the return journey has proved to be no better.

  ‘We should have got a taxi,’ says Emma.

  I shake my head. ‘Ruth was pretty adamant that we should come back by ferry.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ Emma points to Ruth’s heaving shoulders, bent double over the railings, ‘this is bad.’

  I shrug. I’ve no idea what’s bad or normal regarding seasickness, having never witnessed it before. I don’t know how long it will take Ruth to recover or whether this is the end of our bank holiday jollies and a taxi ride back to the cottage is in order.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Ruth,’ says Emma reassuringly as the ferry draws into the harbour.

  ‘We’ll find a bench and have a sit-down before doing anything else,’ I say, collecting my bag and Ruth’s ready to disembark at the first opportunity. ‘I’ll nip to a chemist if you need anything.’

  ‘The chemist won’t be open,’ mumbles Ruth, the first thing she has said in thirty minutes.

  ‘OK, a double rum then – that might make you feel better,’ I joke, grimacing at Emma over Ruth’s head. ‘Pirates relied on a belly full of rum to settle their stomachs.’

  Emma gives me a quick glance before turning away. At least I’m trying to help the situation, which is more than she’s done.

  We walk Ruth along the gangplank and towards solid ground.

  ‘Sorry if I was sick on you,’ she whimpers as we walk either side of her, clutching beneath her underarms and holding her upright between us.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you couldn’t help it. I should have listened,’ says Emma in a jovial tone.

  ‘Yep, that you should,’ I mutter.

  ‘How was I to know?’ retorts Emma, glaring at me.

  ‘She did say . . .’

  ‘Not quite. What she actually said was “I’m not too good on boats”,’ snaps Emma, as if Ruth isn’t present.

  ‘I wonder what that might mean?’ I snap back.

  ‘Ladies, ladies . . . I’ll be fine, honestly. I just need a sit-down and a cold drink. I’ll be right as rain afterwards. I’m not used to boats, that’s all.’

  I look at her greying complexion and doubt that she will be fine. I’m starting to think Ruth isn’t used to much in life other than working full-time and returning home to care for her mother and Jack. I have a strong suspicion that we’ll be returning to the cottage and tucking her into bed before too long.

  Ruth

  Benni and Emma buy fish and chips – I didn’t fancy anything to eat after being so ill – and we make our way towards the harbour to settle upon a bench. A steady stream of tourists saunter past as they tear open their paper parcels and spear chips with tiny wooden forks.

  I am not used to days out with anyone other than my family. My last outing might have been our local WI group’s coach trip to see the Blackpool illuminations, or was it the tour of the Coronation Street studio set? Jack refused to come with us, leaving me with Mum as my partner for the day. She never left my side, even when we were encouraged to change seats to talk to other ladies. That’s how life has been: my mother always linked to my arm, demanding I stay near. I’d never have strayed far, but a quick chat with new acquaintances wouldn’t have harmed either of us. Family can’t live exclusively in each other’s pockets. It would have been nice to have a wider social group in which to enjoy myself. I’d have been happier as a rounded individual rather than being restrained by the narrow social band of just the three of us.

  I sigh, causing Emma to glance up.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  I’m not sure if sharing is caring in these circumstances.

  ‘Ruth?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But?’

  I glance at Benni a short distance away, throwing chips to the seagulls circling the harbour.

  ‘I’ve wasted so many years, Emma. It’s dawning on me how long I’ve spent dedicating my life to raising our Jack and now caring for my mum. I’ve gone from nurturing one to the other and somewhere along the way I’ve become lost in between their needs. Does that sound selfish?’

  ‘No. Not at all, Ruth.’

  I watch as she continues to eat, her gaze not leaving mine.

  ‘I should be grateful, I know I should . . . but I’m not.’

  Emma nods, her jaw chomping rhythmically.

  ‘Surely there was room for other acquaintances, friends . . . even relationships. And yet I’ve shied away from everything
to focus on Jack and Mum.’

  Emma’s listening intently, but I’m not sure she’ll understand my burdens given her solo status.

  ‘It’s as if I excluded myself from life, kowtowed to Mum’s beliefs and opinions in order to make amends for disappointing her. I did everything she demanded, brought home the bacon while she raised my son. Yet now, when I should be gaining a little independence, I’m being tied down yet again.’

  ‘That’s not how it should be,’ Emma says. ‘You need to enjoy a purposeful life too. You can’t just devote yourself to caring for others until the day arrives when Jack has a family of his own and your mother passes away.’

  ‘I know, but I actually feel guilty for wanting a life of my own, and that can’t be right, can it?’

  ‘It certainly can’t. You deserve something for yourself, Ruth. It can’t be all give, give, give – we each deserve something for ourselves from this life.’

  She’s right.

  ‘But how can I change things?’ I ask.

  ‘You need to start putting yourself first. Make some changes and decide what you want for the coming decade or two! That’s what I’ve done.’

  ‘What if I haven’t got a decade or two remaining?’

  ‘Even more reason to get yourself into gear! Stop wasting time and start living the life you want.’ Her voice is strong, confident and energetic. I wish I had the same zest for life.

  I nod.

  ‘Good. But don’t just nod, do it. You deserve a little bit of fun before it’s too late,’ she adds.

  ‘I know. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what it feels like.’

  Emma’s eyes widen as a cheeky grin spreads across her features.

  ‘Maybe we need to remind you then.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ I say, before my deep-seated shyness overwhelms me, as always.

  Emma

  It’s gone dusk as Martin unlocks the door to the ice cream parlour. We enter without a word, the only sound the Yale lock catching behind us.

  The parlour is in near darkness, apart from a shimmer of illumination from the refrigerator lights. The chairs are upturned on top of cleaned tables – everything is spick and span ready for tomorrow’s trade.